


you woke up

by d_e_s



Category: Assassin's Creed, inFAMOUS: Second Son
Genre: M/M, just something short and fluffy honestly, takes place post ac-3 but before the end of iss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7014217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_e_s/pseuds/d_e_s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which desmond is finally able to come home, only this time he's home for good. almost getting killed is a great way to fulfill your previous commitments, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you woke up

It was the sound of traffic that woke him.

The echo of sirens (Police? Ambulance? He was too groggy to tell at this point) bounced off of the buildings, padded only by crunch of tires on the road and blare of the crosswalks as they indicated that the do not walk sign had changed over. They were sounds Desmond had heard many times before, and for a brief moment, he found comfort in them. At least, he did until he realized that he had previously been underground, and last he had checked, said underground lair hadn’t included a bustling city.

Despite this realization, Desmond couldn’t bring himself to panic. This place was already so much better than the cave, and the bed supporting his back was a lot softer than the sleeping bag he had been bundled up in for the past couple of months. With a soft exhale, Desmond cracked his eyes open and squinted at the ceiling before a smile abruptly curved his scarred lips. He hadn’t panicked earlier, and now he knew why: he knew where he was. There was only one individual he knew who had taken the time to paint various designs on the ceiling, and only one individual who could make him feel completely at ease despite not being in the room. Delsin Rowe was a man of many talents, and it seemed that he had finally made good on his promise to kidnap him from the Assassin Order one day.

A chuckle bubbled up in Desmond’s chest as he shifted in the bed and familiarity embraced him like the comforting fit of a well-worn sweatshirt. When Desmond moved to put his hands underneath him, though, everything shifted. Nausea abruptly slammed into desmond’s stomach as the air was brutally ripped from his lungs. It was as though every nerve in his body was on fire, and no matter how hard he tried to catch his breath, it felt as if his chest was too tightly constricted to allow his lungs to properly inflate with oxygen. With a gasp, Desmond slammed back into the bed, his teeth clenched together as gray threatened to overtake his vision.

Oh, right. suddenly he remembered why he was here, and not with the Assassin Order; once again, he’d almost died. Actually, he should have died, but he hadn’t, and had instead managed to drag his half-dead, horribly burnt ass back to Delsin. He had reached Delsin’s apartment on thin strands of resolve though, and had collapsed on his porch after knocking on the door, leaving a bloody knuckle print as proof of his presence. From there, his memories were twisted and distorted, but judging by the fact he’d wound up in Delsin’s bed, he was willing to bet Delsin had answered the door and found him. Or he’d come home and seen him passed out on his porch, either way; what mattered was that he was alive.

Bit by bit, the pain dimmed down until it was manageable, rather than the all-encompassing agony it had been a few minutes ago. He still couldn’t breathe entirely (was something wrong with his lungs?) but the gray had receded from his vision, and his heartbeat was no longer erratic. Swallowing thickly, Desmond turned his gaze away from the painted ceiling and glanced at the source of his pain: his arm. He remembered touching the orb just as he remembered hitting the cold, hard ground before his world had gone black, the stench of burnt skin thick in the air. His memories were starting to come back (albeit they were still incredibly hazy) and the more he remembered, the more he wanted to forget.

Again, nausea hit him, though this time it wasn’t from pain but rather from looking at the damage that had been done to his arm. The burn stretched all the way up his forearm, the skin pink and blistered, but it wasn’t the worst of the mutilation. His hand had taken the brunt of Juno’s orb: the skin on his palm had burnt away until tendons and flesh were visible, all while the remaining skin had been singed black. some sort of clear liquid glistened on the burnt skin, undoubtedly as a result of his previous movements, and Desmond didn’t dare look too closely at it. Yet, despite the clear damage to his arm, something stood out to him: it wasn’t as bad as it should have been. A good portion of his arm had already healed over, the skin pink and tender, and it was really only his hand that was truly gruesome.

The sound of socked feet padding against carpet broke his train of thought and drew his attention to the doorway. For a moment, amber hues met familiar dark pools, before he fully took in Delsin’s state and felt his heart twist in his chest. Quietly, Desmond bit at his chapped lower lip, guilt washing over him in a way that hurt more than his previous agony.

Delsin looked like shit. Dark circles rimmed bloodshot eyes, and Desmond was willing to bet that Delsin hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep since he had turned up on his porch. Gone was the usual spark and zest for life that the conduit seemed to carry (that Desmond loved so much) and in its place was a look Desmond knew all too well. It was a look he had seen on his own face far too many times, and it was a look he had never wanted to see on Delsin’s. Despite the exhaustion, though, something else was much stronger on Delsin’s expression: surprise.

“Hey,” Desmond said after a moment, unable to handle the silence between them for another moment, “you know, out of all the things that have fucked me up, I think this ranks somewhere near the top.” It was an attempt to lighten the mood (jokes, he always made jokes), though judging by the look Delsin gave him, his humor wasn’t exactly welcomed.

“You woke up,” Delsin muttered, voice thick as he simply stared at Desmond. “You finally woke the fuck up. And the first fucking thing you do is make a joke. You show up at my place, collapse on my front door, and the first fucking thing you do after you wake up is tell a joke. Are you kidding me right now, Des?”

With a wince, Desmond briefly glanced away from Delsin, regret pooling in his stomach. He had known better than to make a joke, but old habits died hard, even when he was talking to someone he loved–especially when he was talking to someone he loved. Briefly, the fingers of his good hand clenched against the cool sheets, before his shoulders slowly dropped and he slowly–shakily–exhaled. Even after looking death in the face and winning, he was still afraid of being genuine.

“Christ, are you serious right now? You can drag your mostly dead ass all the way to my doorstep from who the fuck knows where, but you can’t have a straight up conversation with me?” Delsin spat, his hands balling into fists as he stared at Desmond with an emotion that Desmond couldn’t quite identify. No, that wasn’t true, it was more than he didn’t want to identify it.

“Delsin–” Desmond started, his voice hoarse from lack of use. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder how long he had been unconscious; it probably wasn’t healthy to be in two comas, right?

“If you’re going to try and excuse whatever fuckin’ action you took that did that–” cue a sharp gesture to Desmond’s arm, “you can save it. Same thing if you’re trying to justify whatever they made you do.” Revulsion was rich in Delsin’s tone, but despite his actions, he’d yet to actually leave the room. Instead, he stepped forward until he stood at the edge of the bed. It was only when Delsin got closer that Desmond saw it: the faint trembling to his fingers, how dark the circles were under his eyes, and the lack of warmth that usually radiated from him.

Whatever Desmond had been planning on saying died in his chest. With a deep breath, Desmond carefully shifted in the bed, favoring his arm as he moved into a sitting position, and unlike in his previous attempt, he succeeded this time. Scooting back, Desmond pushed his back against the wall (Delsin didn’t have a headboard, unfortunately) before he reached out and grabbed a fistful of Delsin’s shirt in an attempt to yank him into the bed. Sitting up was as far as Desmond’s success went, though: try as he may, he couldn’t tug Delsin down with him. He had learned long ago that if the conduit didn’t want to do something, he wasn’t going to do it, and this was no exception to that particular character trait.

“i’m sorry,” Desmond said. “I’m sorry for scaring you, but I’m not sorry for showing up. This was the first place I thought of after I woke up.” The words spilled from him abruptly, and god, it felt good to finally say them. “I know it doesn’t make up for the shit I’ve pulled, but I’m here.”

“You scared me,” Delsin repeated, though his voice was quieter than it had been moments before. His shoulders had lost some of their previous rigidity, and more of his exhaustion was showing on his face. Whatever walls he had previously built were crumbling, falling away as he listened to Desmond’s words. It was how Desmond knew that he wasn’t truly angry.

Again, Desmond tugged at Delsin’s shirt. only this time, Delsin didn’t fight him and instead crumpled down onto the bed. Immediately, Delsin moved so he could bury his face into Desmond’s chest, and Desmond wasted no time in wrapping his good arm around the other, strong fingers clenching the fabric of his vest as if he were afraid Delsin was about to get up and walk away. For a moment, they both sat in near-silence, with just the shaky sound of their breathing and soft murmur of traffic to act as background noise. 

“I’m sorry,” Desmond repeated, voice little more than a hushed murmur, “but it’s finally over, Del. i’m not going back there. They think I’m dead, and they’re not going to come looking for me. I’m…heh.” Embarrassed by his words, Desmond offered a slight chuckle and bit at his chapped lower lip before he continued. “I guess you could say i’ve finally come home, huh?”

For a moment, Delsin was silent, though Desmond felt Delsin’s arms tighten around him. He knew why his arm was better than it should have been: Delsin had been healing him. Despite the scare he had given the other, despite how on and off they had been ever since they became a “thing,” Delsin hadn’t given up on him. It was how Desmond knew Delsin loved him, and he loved Delsin back. That had become apparent with the fact that he had come here the first chance he’d gotten.

“You’re staying here this time,” Delsin muttered, his voice muffled against Desmond’s chest. “I don’t care who comes fucking looking for you. They almost killed you, they don’t get you back.”

At the sentiment, Desmond found he couldn’t help but smile, ridiculously touched. Quietly, he shifted in the bed until he could rest his cheek against the top of Delsin’s head and close his eyes, the tension that had previously been running through his body finally easing down.

Though he didn’t know what the repercussions of his choice in the temple would be, if given the chance, he knew he would do it all again. It was worth it if it meant he could protect the people he loved. That was something he would think about later, though. Exhaustion was once again washing over Desmond, and he felt the dark waves pulling him under. Before he allowed himself to fall asleep again, though, he had one thing left to say:

“I love you too.”


End file.
